


Blood on Steel

by MonstrousRegiment



Series: Blood on Steel [1]
Category: Ella Enchanted - All Media Types, Hannibal (TV), Valhalla Rising
Genre: Char and Ella never got married for reasons i am not even going to pretend to come up with, It just happened, M/M, alright look, also like insanity, i have no explanation for this fic, i want to blame a particular person for it but let's be real, i was always going to write this fic, it happened to me, like strange and bizarre things happen to perfectly nice and normal people, move along move along, no one really cares lets be honest, pretty much exactly like that in fact, this is not the plot hole you're looking for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 06:02:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonstrousRegiment/pseuds/MonstrousRegiment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The cage was shoved sturdily up against a rock wall, sheer and naked and harsh. There were no guards around, which Char found odd. He waited for the boy to give the prisoner his food and then hid carefully away as the boy went past and back to the settlement. Once he was certain the boy was gone, he picked himself up off the cold ground and inched cautiously forward to the cage. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Inside was—a man. Something like a man. Man-shaped, anyway, though his face looked like it was made of the same material of the wall he leaned against. His one working eye—the other one seemed to have been gouged out, and nothing like gentle—was sharp and hard like the frozen earth. </i></p><p>   <i>There was a shackle around his neck, like a dog’s collar, and the heavy chain it was affixed to run through a thick ring hammered into the wall, and then to a strong-looking anchoring post several feet away, well out of reach of the cage. </i></p><p> And Ella Enchanted/Valhalla Rising crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood on Steel

**Author's Note:**

> Don't give me that look, I'm sure more than one of you thought about this crossover before I wrote it!
> 
> This story was written as a gift for TheTuxedos in Tumblr. I didn't reply to your email, inbox or RP installment all day but I did write a 10k fic on a crack ship we came up with accidentally, so I hope that makes up for it, friend. 
> 
> I tagged this as Hannibal due to a lack of any fucking idea what else to tag it as, and also because I only crossed this characters together due to that series. Additionally, and rather unsurprisingly, Valhalla Rising has no fandom. The tag is sketchy as hell though, so if you're judging me, be aware that I judged myself first. _You're not alone, unconvinced nonbeliever._

The tribe was small but the tribesmen were tall and menacing, wrapped in thick ragged cloaks. Their faces looked carved from stone, with hawkish sharp features and hostile pale eyes.

Still, for all their apparent dislike, they were willing enough to sell them horses, and Char could find no fault with them if they were willing to trade. They needed the horses, anyway.

They stayed three days with the tribesmen as they sent men to get the horses from the pastures they kept them in, and Char saw the boy because he kept leaving with bowls full of food, and returning with empty bowls. He then sat down and ate by the fire, himself. Char left him alone for the first two, days, but at the third, bored and idle, curious, he followed up. Up and down a hill and across a valley, to the next hill and—

The cage was shoved sturdily up against a rock wall, sheer and naked and harsh. There were no guards around, which Char found odd. He waited for the boy to give the prisoner his food and then hid carefully away as the boy went past and back to the settlement. Once he was certain the boy was gone, he picked himself up off the cold ground and inched cautiously forward to the cage.

Inside was—a man. Something like a man. Man-shaped, anyway, though his face looked like it was made of the same material of the wall he leaned against. His one working eye—the other one seemed to have been gouged out, and nothing like gentle—was sharp and hard like the frozen earth.

There was a shackle around his neck, like a dog’s collar, and the heavy chain it was affixed to run through a thick ring hammered into the wall, and then to a solid-looking anchoring post several feet away, well out of reach of the cage.

Even for a prisoner this seemed somewhat excessive. What actually bothered Char, though, was the fact the man had no coat or cloak with which to shelter himself from the freezing wind, whistling loudly in from the East. 

When he heard the sound he let his hand fall automatically to the hilt of his sword, but only slowly turned around.

The boy stared at him, wary and suspicious.

“I’m sorry I followed you,” offered Char, dropping his hand from his sword. “I was told you killed your criminals, so it made me curious when you kept walking away.”

“We do kill our criminals, or at least severely maim them,” the boy replied. “But he’s not a criminal—or one of us, for that matter.”

Char arched his brows, waiting for more information, but the boy seemed all at once to forget the prisoner entirely, and he gave Char a piercing, startlingly intelligent look.

“Where are you from?”

Char blinked at him. “Kyrria. It’s a Kingdom that way, across the Grey Sea,” he gestured away into the land. Into the distance, on a clear day, you could spot the grey hostile mass of the sea. “We bought your horses to get to the docks.”

“And you have slavery in Kyrria?”

Char knew there was something here he was failing to see.

“We did, for a long time,” he said sadly. “But not any longer.”

He glanced at the man in the cage, whose one good eye was still unnervingly fixed on him. “Is that what—“

“And do you have dog fights in Kyrria?”

Char turned back to the boy, slowly, brows half-arched. The boy seemed smart and reasonable but Char knew that boys his age sometimes failed to see the cruelty in their actions or preferences, so he cooled his face and voice.

“They’re not allowed,” he said firmly. “They’re vicious and cruel. They’re wrong.”

The boy nodded, seemingly pensive. Char shook his head slowly and started away, back towards camp. He could feel the itch between his shoulder-blades that he knew would be the man’s gaze still fixed on him. He didn’t dare turn, for fear he might find the man openly staring, fierce and dangerous like a wolf.

“He’s a dog,” the boy caught up with him, and tugged at his cloak to stop him. Char turned and stared him down, now decidedly irritated.

“Another thing we don’t do in Kyrria,” he said coldly. “Is humiliating _prisoners_. He’s chained in a cage, for God’s sake. The very least you can do is call what he is, which is still a _man_.”

The boy’s face twisted in irritation.

“I know he’s a man,” he retorted. “There is no good translation for what we call him in our tongue. He’s a dog, a fight dog, a slave. The tribemen don’t think of him as a man. They use him in fights.”

Char felt a tendril of cold slide down his spine and curl, snake-like, at the pit of his stomach.

“You’re telling me,” he said urgently, glancing at the man in the cage—yes, he was still staring at him—“ that they keep this man in this cage, chained up like an animal, and then take him out to fight animals and then put him back in the cage?”

“No,” the boy blinked, as if startled by the very notion, and Char nearly laughed he was so relieved. Then he said “He fights other men.”

Char was very glad he had not yet eaten, because he could be coughing up his food. Infused abruptly with blinding rage he drew his sword and went to the anchoring pole holding fast the chain, but as he reached it he thought better.

He stopped, took a deep breath, and slid the sword back in the sheath. He was the King of Kyrria. He would absolutely not be rushing into brash actions without a thought spared for process or consequence. A whole pack of tribemen across the hill and him here alone with a helpless young boy and an unarmed violent slave. They wouldn’t make it a league. And there were his men to consider. They were his responsibility.

He turned back to the boy. “Why do they make him fight?”

“For money.”

Char walked back to the cage and eyed the chain. It was taught enough that there was no chance the man could lie down to sleep, or even stand. He probably sat as he was just now whenever he was inside.

“What’s your name?” he asked softly. The man stared at him. Char tried the boy’s language, though his dominion over it was choppy and unpleasant. When the man continued to stare, he turned to the boy.

“He doesn’t speak,” he said, and shrugged. “I’ve never heard him speak, or even make a sound. He might not have a tongue. I don’t know. Maybe they cut it out.”

“You don’t know? What do you call him?” Char frowned at him, then looked back to the man. He crouched, so his eyes were at the same height as the man’s, and braced a knee against the wooden bars of the cage. “I’m King Charmont of Kyrria. I give you my word, I’ll get you out of here. I’ll get you your freedom.”

The boy made a small sound. “I don’t think—he won’t like it if you don’t keep to that.”

Char glared at him. “I don’t give my word lightly.”

He stood, drawing the cloak around himself, but as he made to turn away, the boy darted forward and raised a hand to stop him.

“Blood on steel,” he said, sounding unconvinced. “Your word has to be like blood on steel. Something you can never take back. Once given it’s no longer yours, it belongs to the blade.”

Char stared at him, uncomprehending, for a long moment, but the boy was not looking at him. Finally he turned and looked instead at the slave. He had not changed position or moved a muscle, but his eye darted from the boy back to Char, and the king sensed there was some form of communication here, some understanding, he had failed to grasp.

“Blood on steel,” he repeated, frowning.

He drew the short dagger from the sheath at his waist and, holding the man’s sharp and alert eye, he drew it across his forearm, cutting shallowly, enough to wet the blade. He showed the man the dagger, watching his stony expression as blood dripped to the earth.

“My word,” he murmured, and shifted the dagger to offer it, through the bars, hilt-first, to the man—but the boy gripped his arm and stopped him.

“Don’t,” he said, pulling at Char. “He can’t hide it in there, and if they find it, they’ll take it out of his hide, and mine.”

“But if he’s unarmed—“

“You can’t unarm a sword,” the boy shrugged. “He’s got his hands. They’re more than enough.”

He glanced back towards the village. “We’ve taken too long and will be missed. Let’s go back.”

Char knew that was the wise thing to do, but he still felt torn, unable to turn around and walk away and leave the man in his cage, cold and alone.

“You must have had a name, at some point,” he insisted mulishly. “I cannot—“

“I call him One-Eye,” the boy offered.

Both the man and Char turned to him.

“He needed a name,” he defended himself. “And… he’s only got the one eye.”

Char rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers and exhaled harshly.

“Alright, it’ll do for now. Let’s go.”

 

X

 

“I knew there was something odd with the tribesmen,” Char’s general, Trosk, said wearily. “I just didn’t think it was quite _this_ bad.”

“Not quite bad enough that they slave-trade?” Char asked, frowning.

“They don’t trade,” replied Trosk, and gestured to One-Eye briefly before carefully testing the chain. One-Eye didn’t grunt, but it was clear that manipulating it was uncomfortable for him; the chain was very taut. “They wouldn’t give this one up for the world, my King. It’s clear he has some fierceness to him—no offense son, but you don’t look soft anywhere.”

One-Eye said nothing.

“So what do you suggest?”

Trosk’ brows shot up. He stared at Char for a moment, then, pointedly, leaned against the cage and gave One-Eye a long, assessing look.

“Do you even want or _need_ our help?”

One-Eye held his eyes, steady and even and cold, and then, almost imperceptibly, shook his head. Char’s blood ran cold as ice, and his jaw grew slack.

“Well, that’s that.” Trosk said, and started away.

“Wait! We cannot— _surely_ —One-Eye, or whatever your name is, of course you can’t--“

“My king,” Trosk said quietly, so quietly and calmly that Charmont had to stop and listen. “When you think of slavery you think of lack of freedom?” he waited for Char to nod and open his mouth, and gestured for him not to speak. “Freedom is freedom of choice, my King. If you take that away from him, what do you leave him with?”

Char stared at him, frozen solid. “I gave him my word. I made an oath.”

Trosk’s mouth twisted wryly. “He just freed you from it.”

Char felt his stomach turn. It tore at him to walk away, but he also—understood. Because choice, Char had learned from Ella, choice was _everything_. He nodded. Trosk gave him a sad, small smile, and turned to go back to the settlement. Char dragged a hand down his face, felt his palm catch on the stubble on his cheeks. He felt fractured and cold and unbearably, indelibly sad. The boy watched him from the other side of the wooden cage, an accusative and enraged glint in his pale eyes. Char was also angry; he hated that he could do nothing, but then if he did, who would he be helping? He’d feel better himself, certainly, but as for the slave—another choice taken away, something else never to be given back.

He shook his head, sighing, and crouched down next to the cage.

“I know that at some point you must have had a name,” he said quietly, eyes lowered to the dry grass that had been throw into the cage, like One-Eye was some sort of barn animal. “I wish that I could give you that much back at least.”

He rubbed his eyes and mustered enough force of will to look at One-Eye in the eye, earnest and genuine.

“You do want to be free, don’t you?” he asked urgently. “They haven’t taken that away.”

One-Eye didn’t nod, but Char thought he didn’t need to. The man had an eerie economy of movement, a tight control about him, that made him look all the more dangerous. Any motion, Char felt, would be an eruption of uninhibited violence, something One-Eye gave himself into entirely.

Impulsively, Char pushed his shoulder into the space between two bars and reached out to One-Eye, palm-up and unaggressive. It occurred to him that One-Eye might just take his wrist and snap it, but the way the man failed to react at all told him that he’d caused surprise, maybe even weariness. But Char didn’t mean to harm him, and surely One-Eye was well-trained in discerning the enemies from the unthreatening. The boy had mentioned One-Eye had never, not once, moved to harm him.

It took a long time for One-Eye to decide to move, but Char was patient. The man had to arch to reach with his hands, bound at the wrist with thick rope, but Char was on the post side of the cage, so moving towards him actually meant slackening the chain. One-Eye kneeled upright and caught his hand, eye wary and hard. Char squeezed his fingers—he had strong, long-fingered hands, and his skin was very rough. Then, slowly so as to not startle him, he drew him close and brushed his lips across his dirty, rough knuckles.

It didn’t matter that One-Eye wouldn’t understand what it meant for a King of Kyrria to kiss someone’s knuckles. It wasn’t Char’s intention to honor him or cherish him or offer him an gesture that might have meant something in the great soaring halls of the Palace, but was completely empty here, in the cold and barren earth, inside a cage.

Char knew, though, what it was like to be touched by someone who did care whether you breathed or not.

One-Eye’s face betrayed no emotion or feeling whatsoever as Char rose and drew the cloak close around himself, shivering miserably in the freezing wind. He remained kneeling, back straight and shoulders squared, with his hands bound in front of himself, and an odd, startling gleam in his eyes. Char took a good look at him; strong masculine jaw and chin, hard, thin-lipped mouth, long straight nose, haughty sunken eyes, jutting and sharp cheekbones. Altogether too hard and sharp a face to be beautiful, crossed by scars, mutilated by the missing eye. But certainly memorable. He wouldn’t forget this face, he knew.

Then he turned around and walked away, slowly, without glancing back.

“That was well done,” Trosk said softly, a shimmer of pride to his tone. “A kindness.”

“It’s all I can give him,” said Char, disconsolate.

“Maybe it will be enough,” murmured Trosk, squeezing his shoulder.

Char didn’t think so. But there was little else he could do. Nothing, in fact, if One-Eye didn’t want it.

 

X

 

He couldn’t put the boy or the man out of his mind, but life, unfortunately, had a way of grinding on. And grind on it did, tirelessly, for the next three days of horse ride, moving steadily eastward, without rushing but certainly without pausing.

“We can be at the docks in a week,” Trosk said the evening of the third day as Char laid himself down on his fur blanket and curled into his heavy travel cloak. “And back at Kyrria within a month.”

“I’ll be glad to put this wasteland behind me,” muttered Char.

“Your negotiations were well-meant,” Trosk said gently. “You did what you could.”

Char snorted bitterly, but found he was much too fatigued to argue, and sunk into sleep instead. As always, he slept deeply, and was only with difficulty risen into consciousness by Trosk shaking him harshly by the shoulder and insistently calling him by name. Even awake it took him a moment to understand the tension in the men around him, the alarm. Once he did, though, it blew him wide awake, and he was immediately on his feet, sword drawn.

“My King, the boy says he knows you,” said his lieutenant, tone low.

“The boy?” blinked Char, still off-balance, and peered into the darkness. “What—oh!”

He sheathed his sword, grinning, and snaked past his guard to clutch the boy by the shoulders, so happy suddenly he was laughing.

“You managed to get out! Thank heavens, and,” he trailed off as another, larger shadow took shape behind the boy, this one much harder, and startlingly tall. Char straightened, shock slackening his jaw.

“One-Eye,” he managed, and felt a shock of horror when his eyes drew down to the man’s ruined shirt. He sucked in a hissing breath, horrified, and almost moved before he stopped himself from sudden motions, all too aware of that one gleaming, dangerous eye.

“It’s not his blood,” said the boy, moving decidedly towards one of the fires.

Char felt his stomach churn, but he managed to dredge up a welcoming smile, and very cautiously reached for One-Eye’s arm.

“Come sit by the fire,” he invited. “You must be freezing. Trosk, could you give me one of your shirts? Mine won’t fit him.”

Trosk stared at him for a moment, disbelieving, and then mechanically kneeled down and pulled out one of his spare shirts, shook it out, and—stayed where he was. Char arched his brows at him. One-Eye shifted, a tiny motion of muscles interplaying along his arm, and Char dropped his hand at once, stepping away so One-Eye could go to the fire. The man stared at him for a moment, unblinking—maybe he never blinked—and then went past, arm brushing briefly against Char’s chest.

Char went to Trosk, frowning.

“My King, I am all for the abolition of slavery, let that be said,” started Trosk.

“Oh, I’m not going to like what follows,” lamented Char.

“—but surely you see the lack of wisdom in allowing a _violent stranger_ into your _personal guard_. Not to mention he comes to you armed. And covered in someone else’s blood. He doesn’t even speak our language. And he’s clearly been tracking us for a while, or else he would not have found us.”

“So what you’re saying,” Char said reasonably. “Is that I’ve no reason to want to take into my guard a competent warrior and tracker who can get himself out of tight situation with minimal damage to himself and his charge, speaks very little and therefore listens very well, has his own weapons and therefore requires no outfitting, and is not afraid to do what is necessary to ensure his own and someone else’s survival.”

Trosk gave him a baleful look. “Ella is a terrible influence.”

“Ella is the best influence,” countered Char. “Your shirt, please?”

 

X

 

One-Eye unnerved everyone.

It wasn’t not so much what he did or how he did it, but rather that he mostly did nothing, but did nothing in the most menacing way possible, if possible at all. And if it wasn’t possible, he managed anyway.

“I swear,” one of the guards muttered on the evening of the fourth day after that had joined the guard. “If he keeps sharpening that thing, he won’t have a blade anymore.”

“I suspect quite firmly that he knows what he’s doing,” returned Char, but dubiously. One-Eye had joined the guard with the same grace and ease with which a grown wolf joins a litter of kittens. There wasn’t anything about him that wasn’t unsubtly threatening. He ate little, barely slept, often went away for long stretches of time only to return disinclined to explain himself—not that anybody asked, nobody wanted to die screaming—and occasionally turned up with game, as though he’d gone hunting. In the middle of frozen nowhere. With a hatchet.

“What even is that? Is that a rabbit? It’s the size of a dog. Where does he _find_ these things?” Lieutenant Margran shook his head, poking at the carcass with his sword.

Trosk eyed him. “You want to ask him?”

Char was only half paying attention, listening to something else, something vague and distant, half familiar. He walked away a few paces to listen more intently, trying to name the sound, that rattled something in his memory, but the men were speaking, and he could not listen properly. He drew a few more steps away, and didn’t see the slick rock he was stepping onto until he tripped over it.

His arm angled abruptly up, jarring his shoulder, but whatever had caught him had arrested his fall. Startled, Char righted himself and tried to retrieve his arm, but One-Eye held fast, brows canted slightly in a frown.

“Thank you, One-Eye,” Char smiled. “I get clumsy with the snow. It doesn’t snow in Kyrria, I’m not used to it.”

The man’s vice-like grip eased slowly away, but even once released Char thought he could still feel the fingers gripping him tightly. One-Eye had a staggering, overwhelming sort of physicality, when he chose to move. There wasn’t much grace or elegance in him, but there was an impressive, admirable control of inertia and strength in calculated combinations.

“Can you hear that though?” Char closed his eyes, letting his mind drift. “It—I think it’s a bird.”

One-Eye was still looking at him when he opened his eyes again, but then he moved away, towards the clutch of shrubbery not a quarter of a mile away, wordlessly. Char, curious, followed after him. They crept quietly down the slope of the hill towards a frozen creek lined with winter-dead vegetation, One-Eye on the lead, the gleaming metalhead of his hatchet tucked at his belt. He stopped, and crouched, and surprisingly tangled a hand on the shoulder of Char’s cloak to pull him close and keep him there, and then went very still, and very quiet.

This close One-Eye had a scent like blood and metal and the sharp, stinging smell that lightning left behind once it faded. He was staring openly at Char, as usual with exactly no expression, and seemed unwilling to move for the moment, so the King shifted to get comfortable. He closed his eyes, willing to wait One-Eye out, and focused on his own breathing like he’d been taught, to find the calm within himself, to steady the blood singing in his veins. One-Eye shifted his grip, but then seemed to think the better of it and tightened his fingers again. Char wasn’t going anywhere, but so far he’d denied One-Eye very little, if it comforted him, and his hand wasn’t hurting him.

It took him a moment to find it, and then his eyes snapped open and his head canted to the side.

The bird was small, snow-white, with a harsh black beak and sky-blue eyes. Its wings seemed overlarge for its small body, and the tips of the feathers trailed, somehow spotlessly clean, over the snow. Char gasped, and One-Eye tightened his grip enough to warn him not to make a sound. But the bird had heard, and its head turned towards them, blue eyes sharp and too smart by half.

Then it cooed, that small warm soft sound that had led Char away from his guards, and spread its wings wide, impossibly long and wide, and stole, abruptly, to the sky. Char jerked towards it impulsively, fascinated, and was cut short mid-motion by One-Eye pulling him roughly back so that his shoulder hit the man in the chest. He thought he might have bruised himself; One-Eye continued unbothered. He was, quite possibly, made entirely of stone and ice, but for his eye, which was made of something harder and colder.

“Thank you,” breathed Char, and gave One-Eye a wide, truly grateful and fond smile, the sorts of which One-Eye might not have ever received, or at least not for quite a while. Something flickered in that eye, but One-Eye said and did nothing, and eventually Char reached up for his hand and untangled his long fingers from his cloak, and stood.

He paused, as One-Eye got to his feet, and looked around. Glanced at the sky though the bird was long gone, and then let his eyes wonder across the winter desert, snow-covered and pristine. Eerie, lonely, and somehow lovely for it. A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he swung his head to the side and saw a man just dip back behind a hill.

One-Eye had seen too, and stepped forward immediately, hand at his hatchet, but Char threw an arm across his way to stop him, without turning.

“Back to camp,” he said quietly, and then walked away without waiting for One-Eye to confirm, confident as any King that his order would be heeded.

One-Eye followed, but Char was half certain he only did it because he didn’t think Char could find his own way back to camp, or get there in one piece. Still, follow he did. Char wasn’t going to get picky with a man carrying a very sharp hatchet.

 

X

 

“They’ve been following us for a while,” Trosk said about an hour later. “I thought they would desist once they saw there’s two dozens of us and One-Eye, but they seem to be amassing more men instead.”

“Traders, probably,” mused Margran, sitting the bonfire. “Looking for merchandise. Or tribesmen looking for fight-dogs.”

“It’s also entirely possible they want One-Eye back.”

“He didn’t leave anyone alive,” replied the boy, whom they’d taken to calling Alander, the Kyrrian word for ‘gold-thread’, for his hair. If the boy had had a name of his own, he had long since forgotten it. “They can’t want him _back_.”

“Alright, well, maybe they just want him,” said Margran reasonably. “They caught him once, they think they can catch him again. And if they take a few of the rest of us along the way, that’s probably something they can live with.”

“Not to mention ransom,” added Trosk. “For you, my liege.”

“I doubt they plan that much ahead,” Char shook his head. “To cash my ransom they’d have to take me to shore, and they’re inland men.”

He straightened and crossed his arms, musing.

“I feel really uncomfortable talking about this like he isn’t even here,” complained Margran’s second, Illius.

“He knows he’s welcome to intervene whenever, let him be,” answered Char, absently, without even glancing at One-Eye, who was sitting silently on the grass a short distance away, eye sharp and alert on them. “And before anyone thinks to suggest it, it’s out of the question to surrender a man to slavery. Not to mention it wouldn’t only be One-Eye, they’d want Alander as well.”

“What, why?”

Alander gave Illius a hostile look. “Because the tribesmen raised me to take care of One-Eye, and I’m the only one he wouldn’t disembowel, so they’d need to take me. They raise kids like me to tend to men like him. Sometimes the kids get mauled and they get new kids.”

“Gods,” Illius looked sick. “Maybe we should just set One-Eye on the lot of them. He took care of the last batch.”

“That tribe was small!” Alander scowled.

“And this one grows by the day,” said Trosk. “Soon enough they’ll outnumber us.”

“They won’t attack us out in the open,” Char turned away to drag a long look across the frozen planes, taking in every detail. “We’re better trained and for now, have greater numbers. But they’ll be planning an ambush. Is there any place they could be lying in wait, Alander?”

The boy considered that. “There’s a mountain pass we need to get through to get to the docks. It’s a road cut through a cliff, only just wide enough for a cart.”

Trosk grunted. “We’ll be fish in a barrel.”

Char turned back to his men, frowning. “So we rush them. Now, here in the plains where we have the advantage.”

The general looked dubious. “I don’t like that idea.”

Char arched his brows. “You can hate all my ideas, but you’ll have to pick one.”

Trosk rubbed a palm slowly across his wide forehead, nodding.

“Tonight then, we rush them.”

Sleep as they waited for night to fall was beyond Char, though many of the men slept around him. Trosk was nearby, lying on his back and muttering nonsense as he dreamt. But Char was awake, and so he knew perfectly well when One-Eye moved, snake-like and silent as the grave, to his side, and sat. He was a looming dark silhouette against the evening sky, increasingly star-studded. Char said nothing and One-Eye, of course, kept quiet.

“You should get some sleep,” Char said absently, pointlessly. One-Eye would not sleep, he knew, even if he did lay down.

The man-dog dipped his head a little forward, as if considering, and then reached out a hand and fisted the front of Chart’s coat, twisting the fabric in his hand. Char waited for the man to pull him up, but One-Eye moved no more, instead just sitting there, holding onto Char. The King sighed and closed his eyes, and let One-Eye do as he would do. There would be no stopping him, anyway.

 

X

 

They did rush them, about an hour and a half after sunset, wrapped in darkness and moving with the silence of the already dead. Char was at the vanguard, moving slowly and keeping low, his sword heavy and bright in his right hand, his dagger aiming downward on the left. Trosk moved like a whisper to his right, waiting for Char to give the signal.

They threw themselves at the tribesmen like voiceless shadows, letting the blades speak for them. It was chaos, but controlled, in a manner. Char circled to the left flank where he could tell the fighting would be heaviest, let Trosk take the left where the tribesmen were already hesitating.

Then it was the grinding, gritty and slick business of war, blood and dirt and mud and the freezing cold in his lungs, warmth escaping his lips in long white clouds of steam every time he breathed out. He gritted his teeth. Swung his sword, stabbed, parried a blow, threw away a spear, dodged a hatchet to the head, felt the glancing blow of a spearstaff to his shoulder, killed that man, moved on to the next, moved on to the next, moved on to the next.

It couldn’t have taken more than half an hour to finish it, but it felt like time dragged, molasses-like, lazy and indulgent.

A hand grabbed at his elbow and whirled him about, and Char thrust out his dagger, and his teeth rattled when One-Eye shook him, harshly, out of the stupor of battle. Char dropped his arms to his sides and let himself slump forward to knock his forehead against the man’s hard broad shoulder. One-Eye did nothing, blood-splattered and mud-streaked, except dipping his head and, surprisingly, pressing his nose to Char’s hair. Char knew he could allow himself this small reprieve; One-Eye would not let any harm come to him, of this he was certain.

One-Eye let go of his arm and threaded his long fingers into Char’s hair, tightened his grip enough to sting, and held on. Char closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of leather and blood and ozone. He wondered, briefly, if One-Eye was human at all.

“Are you hurt, my King?” Trosk asked, voice neutral, startling Char out of his stupor. Even when he straightened One-Eye did not let go of his hair, making it difficult to turn and face Trosk.

“Only fatigued,” he managed, mustering up a smile.

Trosk eyed One-Eye and seemed to debate whether he should be slicing that hand away from his King or be backing away. One-Eye turned his head very slowly towards him, reptilian, and Char raised his dagger-hand and motioned for Trosk to move away, preferably without startling One-Eye. Char knew the man wouldn’t hurt _him_ —though how he knew he could hardly explain—but he very much doubted he would extend that courtesy to Trosk.

“Let’s start burying, them,” sighed Margran, sheathing his sword. One-Eye made a sharp movement with his head, bearded chin scratching Char’s temple. Char straightened away, frowning, and looked at him.

“I think,” he started dubiously, and when One-Eye held his gaze, continued more firmly. “He thinks we should leave them. As a warning for others.”

Trosk gave him a scandalized look. “We ought to respect the dead, my liege.”

Char shook One-Eye's hand away and faced his general, uneasy. “These aren’t our dead, and this isn’t our land. I think we should pay attention to what One-Eye thinks.”

“How do you,” Margran threw his hands in the air. “It’s like taking advice from a statue, how do you even _know_ what he wants?”

“He doesn’t speak,” agreed Char, restlessly sheathing his sword and dagger, stomach turning oddly. “But he—I can’t—I can’t explain it. I think we should walk away. I feel like the night is moving around us.”

Trosk and Margran shared a look, unsettled. Magic was no stranger to Kyrrians, nor always a friend. And the magic that murmured in this strange land was cold and hostile.

“Let the night have them, then,” said Trosk, studying One-Eye with a keen, watchful eye.

He said nothing else, but all the way back to camp he stood carefully between his King and One-Eye, and he and Margran sat at both his sides for the rest of the night, awake and alert whenever he woke up.

 

X

 

They continued on across the frozen land, huddling together for warmth.

By mid-morning the fifth day of travel they could see the mountains, and the mountain pass, ahead of them in the distance. That evening the made camp at the foot of the ice-tipped peaks, pressed close one to the other around the fire, shoved up against the back wall of a shallow cave for shelter.

Char stood at the mouth of it and watched the sky go from dark and ugly gray to velvety blue to inky black, watched the sky burst with stars. He felt One-Eye at his shoulder, and then surprisingly felt him lean in and—

He looked at him over his shoulder, bewildered. “Did you just _smell_ me?”

One-Eye straightened and said nothing. Char huffed, amused, and shook his head. Getting any sort of explanation from One-Eye was like hoping for an apple tree to give you grapes.

Instead, he extracted an arm from the furred inside of his cloak and gestured to the sky.

“I can see the constellations from Kyrria from here. I don’t know why it surprises me. We’re not that far, are we?”

One-Eye stepped over and peered up into the sky, the moonlight lending his features a new, softened cast. He was standing to Char’s right, and the King could see his ruined left eye, a mass of scar tissue, poorly healed and ugly.

Then One-Eye moved away, crouching down at the edge of the cave where the mud had been stomped on by their boots, and with a small stone started drawing something. Curious, Char moved closer and leaned over his shoulder. One-Eye was writing something in runes in the mud, something short and probably very important. Char laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

“I can’t read runes, One-Eye. You’d have to ask Alander to translate it for me.”

One-Eye’s mouth thinned in displeasure, and he stood abruptly, erasing the writing with his boot. Char let his hand drop.

“Was that your name?” he asked quietly.

One-Eye threw the stone away and went back into the cave. Char sighed, and took his place sitting on a rock to keep his watch. For the next few hours, everything was quiet and calm, and his only companions were the stars. Once the men had all fallen asleep, though, One-Eye returned, and stood next to Char.

“Are you not cold?” Char blinked up at him. “I’m alright here, you needn’t stay.”

The man looked down at him and then, wordlessly, lifted his hand and grasped him by the hair again, though this time gently. Because figuring out how One-Eye’s mind worked was not something Char had any hope of ever achieving, he let him do it, and turned back to the stars.

They stayed like that for a long, long time.

 

X

 

It would have taken a day to go through the mountain pass, but halfway through Alander showed them a small passage into a natural hot water pool. The temptation proved too strong, so they posted guards and took turns getting washed and soaking in the warmth.

Char, who’d begun to think he might never be warm again, almost laughed in delight when he sank down to his neck, weary of wetting his hair for fear of having it frozen later.

“Oh good,” said Margran, groaning. “I can feel my balls again, they’re still there.”

Trosk grunted and threw water in his face, and Char thought he might swallow his own tongue, he was laughing so loudly. He wasn’t surprised when One-Eye grasped his forearm and led him away, to a small alcove carved into the stone.

Char gasped. The wall was slashed with long, diagonal streaks of glittering diamond, glossy and brilliant. The sunlight reflected on the water and then shattered into a million shards against the diamond, creating a dizzying, strange light effect in the small alcove. He moved forward to press his hand against the stone.

In a blur of sudden panic he found there was no more bottom beneath his foot.

He went down into the water, startled enough to make s soft sound. Water rushed into his mouth, hot and sour. One-Eye caught his arm and snapped him back and up, backing away from the far wall until his back was against the other one. Char coughed, swiping a hand down his face to shake off the water. The alcove was small and with the hot water filling it, warm, but the air was still chilly, and his teeth were chattering. He hunched his shoulders, miserable, and almost flinched when One-Eye slid an arm around his stomach and drew him close, chest to back.

He could hear his men talking on the bigger pool, shouting back and forth in Kyrrian. Trosk was laughing, loud and long.

One-Eye’s head dipped forward slowly, so his sharp nose brushed the side of Char’s neck. Char felt his heart in his chest and it felt like it was beating wildly enough to escape his ribs. One-Eye nosed behind his ear, and Char sucked in a breath, found himself pushing back against the taller man with his shoulders, and certainly not trying to get away.

The man’s big hand left his arm and curled around the base of his throat, not squeezing but certainly there, and Char let his head drop back against his broad shoulder, breathing fast. Something like a sound came from One-Eye’s throat, deep and pleased, and his thin lips dragged up Char’s neck to his jaw.

Char realized suddenly that he was hard. He gasped out sharply, shocked at himself, and grasped One-Eye’s arm still held across his stomach. The man pulled him even closer, and Char choked on his own spit when his ass pressed against One-Eye’s own erection. One-Eye shifted, moved his arm so he could press his palm to the middle of Char’s torso, right below the spot where his ribs met each other. Char’s breathing was fast and shallow, the only sound in the alcove besides the lapping of water at the stone walls.

He flinched hard enough that he hit One-Eye slightly on the chin with his shoulder when Trosk called out to him, inquisitive for now but ready to be alarmed. He stepped away from One-Eye, grateful when the man didn’t hold fast or follow. He simply stood right where he was, in the water up to the waist, head tilted forward and to the side, eye fixed on Char.

“Trosk,” rasped the King, palming his own dry mouth. “Come look at this.”

Trosk was as impressed and fascinated by the diamond in the walls as Char had been. Char smiled at him whenever the general looked his way, but he felt overwrought and tense, off-balance.

One-Eye didn’t leave or stop staring.

 

X

 

Char had no hopes that One-Eye would let it go—whatever _it_ was that brew between them—but he certainly wasn’t expecting the man to be dogged about it either.

So it was a complete surprise to him when that night One-Eye actually, for the first time in their presence, laid down to sleep—as opposed to sleeping sitting up as he had so far—and chose to do it, conspicuously, right next to Char.

In fact, pretty much on top of him.

Margran stared at him dubiously. “Is that normal?”

“For him?” asked Char.

“Fair point.”

Margran seemed to wonder briefly what were the odds he’d get swiftly decapitated if he tried to pull One-Eye away, appeared to conclude they were unconscionably high, and walked away to the other side of the cave.

“I’m your King!” called out Char, though he wasn’t at all bothered by the way One-Eye had lain, back against the wall, at his side.

“And so I’ll trust you to be polite and not moan too loudly,” yelled back Margran.

Char rolled his eyes and frowned down at One-Eye, lying on his left side with his eyes closed.

“You’re lying on the bare rock,” he muttered, tugging at the man’s arm to get him up. “At least lie on my cloak, come on.”

One-Eye gamely allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, and didn’t object when Char threw the cloak down on the floor and then lied back down. This time, though, he didn’t attempt to keep a discreet distance between them; he maneuvered Char on his back to the floor and then stretched flush against his side, pinning him there with an arm and thigh. Char exhaled roughly and drew the cloak snugly around the both of them.

This immediately became a problem. Not only because Char was suddenly hyperaware of the stark physicality of One-Eye, which he’d always noticed in any case, or even because the man put heat out like a damn furnace and Char felt like he was cooking up in about ten minutes, or even because he was uncomfortable and couldn’t really move, One-Eye not seeming amenable to the suggestion that he release Char.

There was something else between them as they lay in the dark deep in the cave, where his men had put him so he would be safe. The fire was far enough that the light barely reached them, and the position they were in, wrapped in the cape and sheltered in darkness, was intimate enough by itself to dry Char’s throat. But one-Eye was also breathing against his throat, soft and even, pressed up very close, so that his chest pushed against Char’s shoulder when he inhaled. Char’s heart was pounding.

But One-Eye seemed content to lie as he was then, and did nothing else, seeming to sleep. The warmth and rhythm of the man’s breaths finally lulled Char himself to sleep as well, comfortable for the first time in a while.

He jarred awake and indeterminate amount of time later when One-Eye moved, bracing himself up onto an elbow and leaning in over him. Still sleepy, relaxed, Char tipped his chin up so the man could ghost his lips across his throat, and One-Eye did, for a moment, before pulling away and grabbing Char’s left arm. Puzzled, Char watched him push at the sleeve of his shirt until his forearm was uncovered.

Then, still holding his gaze, he lined in and licked at the mark, not yet fully healed, of the cut Char had done to wet the blade of his danger as he made his oath.

Char’s heart leapt up into his throat, pounding.

“I didn’t keep that oath,” he protested shakily, breathless.

One-Eye descended upon him brutally, nearly all teeth, still clutching his left wrist. Char made a startled sound low in his throat, not quite a moan. Heat suffused him, erupting from his chest and spreading fast downwards. He shifted on his back and nearly made another sound when One-Eye’s thigh pressed down against him, pinning him down.

He twisted his wrist out of One-Eye’s grasp and gripped him by the hair, angling his own head to better slot their mouths together. He wanted to gentle One-Eye somehow, make him slow down, but he was also consumed by the fire himself, and couldn’t get his mouth to leave One-Eye’s long enough to tell him that he wasn’t going anywhere. So instead he tugged at One-Eye’s hair and pulled his closer on top of him.

One thing was certain, One-Eye did have a tongue, which he used skillfully.

Impatient, Char reached down and pushed at One-Eye’s knee, shoving him so that instead of crossing over his crotch, his thigh was between his own. Then he pulled up a knee and rolled his hips up against One-Eye’s erection, nestled now against his hipbone. One-Eye hissed sharply, wrenching his mouth away to pant against Char’s cheek. His hips came down to meet Char’s, the farthest thing from gentle, and Char realized there was no telling how long it had been since One-Eye had been allowed this sort of intimacy.

The thought made his throat ache. No one deserved to live in a cage. He found his mouth again and kissed One-Eye as his other hand fisted in the man’s shirt and pulled him closer. It took a moment for One-Eye to understand he was showing him the pace, and then Char nearly grunted when he moved away, leaning his forehead against Char’s cheekbone. He was looking down at the motion of their bodies, Char knew, but there was nothing to see in the darkness and wrapped in the cloak, so he pulled him up again and kissed him.

Almost a moment later, One-Eye stiffened above him, grunting like he was in pain, hips slamming down onto Char’s hard enough to bruise. His body went very limp, head hanging so his cheek rubbed against Char’s, panting breath warm and moist on the King’s neck. One-Eye was very heavy like this, lax and surprisingly relaxed, and Char took the opportunity to skate his hands up and down his back beneath his shirt, soothing. His fingers found innumerable scars, some big, some small. He traced the long groove of his spine from shoulder-blades to buttocks, stroked up his sides and ribs, felt the pulling and contracting of long flat muscles as he breathed.

It took a long time for One-Eye to pull himself together. There was a strange, unreadable expression in his face when he braced himself on an elbow and deftly undid the lacings of Char’s leather breeches. He was slower then, like he’d found some tenderness buried deep inside that had broken loose when Char had held him, and he licked and nosed at Char’s neck as he stroked him, leisurely and patient.

After, when Char was breathing harshly and spent, overheated and covered in sweat and his own semen, One-Eye righted his clothes and kissed the mark on his arm again, tucking his face on the crook of Char’s neck and, surprisingly, going immediately to sleep.

Char sighed, palmed the heated back of One-Eye’s neck, and did the same.

 

X

 

He didn’t have the least idea what to expect the following morning, so he didn’t know if he had any right to be surprised when One-Eye continued to be his creepy, looming and unsettling self. On second thought, Char hadn’t noticed how much One-Eye circled constantly around him, like he was the sun and One-Eye a planet.

“Has he been doing that all along?”he asked curiously two days later when, sitting by the fire at lunch, he noticed One-Eye watching him from where he was sitting with Alander.

Trosk gave him a look that was a bizarre mix between exasperated, horrified, and resigned. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, closed it, and finally managed to say, “Yes.”

Char nodded and turned back to his food. Trosk watched him for a moment, frowning.

“Do you want me to get rid of him?” he asked uncertainly.

“What? No,” Char stared at him. “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t think that,” admitted Trosk. “But I had to ask. You’re my King; if you want him gone, he’ll be gone.”

“Do _you_ want him gone?”

Trosk’s face made a complicated shuffle of emotions and settled, at last, in wary.

“I like him very little and trust him even less,” he admitted. “But I know that so long as he’s around, you’re untouchable. And I can put up with a lot from a man that’ll do anything to keep you safe, my liege.”

“Put up with what?” Char asked incredulously. “He knows the way to the docks, can ride a horse, hunt for food, does as you tell him, and doesn’t talk back. How exactly is he a bother?”

Trosk winced. “It’d help if the men didn’t think he’ll kill them all in their sleep any day now.”

Char’s mouth dropped open. “They seriously think that?”

Trosk gave him a pointed look. “He’s got an _expression_.”

“That’s just his face.”

The general rolled his eyes. “Love makes fools out of everyone and that’s your business, but if you could talk to him about looking murderous the vast majority of the time, I’d appreciate it.”

He got up and walked away. Char insisted, “That’s just his _face_!” spreading his hands, but the men around him gave him accusatory glares, so he huffed and got up, muttering.

“Walk with me?” he asked One-Eye, who nodded guardedly and rose, hatchet at his belt.

Char really did mean to speak to him about maybe not looking like he might at any time snap and dismember someone. What happened, though, was that One-Eye kissed him, surprisingly tenderly, on the mouth, and Char ended up on his back on the floor, half on his lap, undulating his hips against One-Eye’s as the man braced himself on one hand above him and stroked him with the other, both of them half naked.

This time, unlike the previous, Char could actually see him, could see the taut line of his muscles as he stroked their cocks together, his slack jaw and reddened lips. Whimsically, Char reached up and loosened One-Eye’s hair, so that it fell, unexpectedly straight, against his sharp face. He stroked it away from his cheek and loved the way One-Eye’s eye fell closed at the gentleness, like any sort of kindness undid him.

When they were done and Char lay panting dazedly on his cloak, One-Eye found some form of fascination in stroking his rough fingertips across the smeared combination of their seeds on Char’s stomach and chest, tickling him. There was an odd expression in his face, in his eye turned bright by pleasure, as he watched Char’s chest move with his breathing. It was like Char was something beyond his understanding, something precious and fragile and dear that he could not hope to keep.

Char let him do as he pleased, blinking lazily up at the sky, and smiled when One-Eye leaned down and kissed him on the mouth, slow and tender like he hadn’t been able to before. Maybe he was remembering things he’d long since lost.

“You should come to Kyrria,” he murmured, eyes half-closed. One-Eye rested his forehead against his right eyebrow. “It’s not perfect, but it’s a lot more forgiving than this land. My best friend, Ella, I think you’d really like her. Stubborn as a goat.” He chuckled fondly.

One-Eye slid a hand against the small of his back, lifting him slightly from the heap of their clothes to inhale deeply at the corner of his jaw.

“You don’t have to,” sighed Char. “But I’d really like it if you did.”

Then, when they were dressed and One-Eye walked at his side with his hand wrapped warmly at the back of Char’s neck, the King frowned at him.

“Don’t kill any of my men. I don’t think I need to tell you, but they asked me to remind you they wouldn’t find it endearing, so. Don’t.”

The very corner of One-Eye’s right brow twitched up so slightly that if Char had not been staring at him intensely, he would have missed it.

“Ah!” he cried out, shaking One-Eye by the arm. “His face moves! He has expressions! There might be hope for you yet, my friend!”

One-Eye shoved him away, but there was a new glint in his eye that looked a lot like mirth.

 

X

 

The ship was waiting for them at the dock, anchored where they had left it, and the captain looked deliriously happy to see them.

“We are ready to set sail as soon as you wish it, Your Highness.”

“With the next tide, then,” nodded Char, patting his arm. “It’s high time I returned home.”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” the captains aid promptly, grinning.

Char smiled back at him. The ship was full of activity now that they had arrived, with seamen scuttling about tending to ropes and minding their business. Char turned around and found Alander, alone. He didn’t bother looking around. If One-Eye didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t find him. A tight knot of pain wound tight inside his chest, but he inhaled, and smiled at the boy.

“Are you coming to Kyrria, then?”

Alander eyed him. “You’re not angry?”

Char sighed tiredly. “I don’t own him, Alander. If he doesn’t want to come,” he trailed off, throat tight.

For the rest of the day, Char was too busy to mourn. There were a lot of things he needed to do once he returned to Kyrria, and a lot of them needed to be started now that he had an office available to him. By evening, his head ached. His back cracked loudly when he stood. Rueful, he changed into a nightshirt and stretched out in the cot, pleased to be sleeping on something soft for the first time in weeks.

He snapped awake sometime later in the night, and thrashed when he felt something grasp his shoulders.

He opened his mouth to call out for his guards, and then the stranger moved away and moonlight sliced across One-Eye’s sharp and haughty face.

“You asshole,” snarled Char, slapping him in the chest. “God, I’m too young and pretty to die.”

One-Eye snorted, actually _snorted_ , before he pulled away to sit at the edge of the cot and unlace his boots. Char huffed in irritation, resting his palm against the man’s ribs.

“Alander and I thought you weren’t coming,” he murmured, watching as One-Eye stood to twist out of his shirt and leather breeches. He realized with some shock that it was the first time he saw One-Eye entirely naked, but had little time to appreciate as the man slid almost immediately into the cot alongside him, pressing his own back against the wall of the cabin.

He’d washed again, and his hair was soft and silky when Char stroked his fingers through it. The moonlight made his face look like it had been chiseled out of a stone block, eyes sunk deep, nose jutting and thin. But his mouth was soft, and there was affection in his eye when he stroked the pad of his thumb across Char’s clean-shaven jaw.  

Char could see what One-Eye had done, now. He understood that he’d wanted to test whether Char would come after him and beg him to come along. He needed to know if his freedom was true or something given only in name, not really his to keep. But there was also something else in the relaxing line of his broad shoulders, in the way his usual stony expression was dissolving into some form of strange, alien peace.

He’d wanted to test his welcome, too.

Char sighed and twisted around, turning in One-Eye’s arm so he could face him and press his face against his long, stubbled throat. A lot of his prickly beard was grey along his chin and jawline, but on his throat and cheeks it still grew dark.

“You’ll like Ella,” he yawned. “She appreciates freedom more than most.”

One-Eye shifted to draw him closer, and said nothing. 


End file.
